Chapter V: July fourth, 1921

"Eighty-nine and two tenths!" said Capt. Triplett.

"Eighty-nine and two tenths," echoed Miskin, jotting down the figures.

Our navigator lowered the astrolabe through which he had been peering and folded up his artificial horizon. He then figured for a few moments on the edge of the taffrail, scrupulously erasing the calculation with a combination of saliva and sleeve before he announced in his usual formula:

"She proves. Key-rect as hell."

I piped down the engines and ordered the company abaft. We were working through an open lead at the time.

The moment had come for another important announcement. These were of almost daily occurrence at this time, each stage of our journey having been marked by the establishment of a record for ship travel. It had therefore become my custom to call the men together as soon as our position had been officially announced, at which time we held a sort of business "causerie," chatted over what had been accomplished, discussed the future plans and policy of the expedition and so on, much as is done today in business organizations whose lack of business gives them ample time for such recreations.

THE AVOWAL

It was not to be expected that the temperamental Swank would long
remain proof against the attractions of the beguiling Klinka maidens
and here we have evidence of him running true to form, the form in
this case being that of Klipitok, the youngest of the Mrs. Makuiks.
The scene is the sub-polar apartment of the Kryptok hunter, hewn from
the ageless ice.

Obviously a tender passage is in progress. The jaunty Swank, holding
in his hand a bunch of lapland-larkspurs, which, it should be
remarked, were completely out of season at the time, is not only
saying it with flowers but with all the practised ardor of a grade A
Romeo.

"You are the sweetest thing in the world," he whispers. "I have never
met anyone like you in all my life."

The child hears and believes.

"You are so original!" she murmurs, bending her seal-like ear.

"And you so aboriginal!"

"More!" she sighs passionately.

"Have you ever been to Niagara Falls?"

At this point, due to the rising temperature, great drops of water
began to fall from the ice-roof and a harsh command from Makuik drove
the lovers into the open air.

In justice to Mr. Swank it should be stated that all wife-wooing
was conducted with the full knowledge and consent of the husband.
Makuik's ulterior motive, doubtless, was to secure additional hunters
for his tribe. Alas, for Swank's romantically planned honeymoon, it
was doomed to end as so many do, in disappointment.

Today, more than ever, I felt the responsibility of my position. Having gained in assurance and poise by reason of experience at previous meetings, my words were terse and well-chosen.

"Men," I said, "and lady" (bowing to Sausalito, who waved a tennis shoe at me), "the end is well nigh come. The goal for which we have labored is almost in sight. The Pole, reputed inaccessible, is at hand. No longer the interminable leagues intervene. No longer do the long miles stretch between us and our object. We have annihilated space--and time!" (Cries of "Hear, Hear!")

"Men of the Traprock Expedition, tried, true and trusty Traprockians, we have almost completed our journey, we are nearly there, the long-sought----"

A tremendous cheer interrupted me. My companions were unable to control themselves, and my oratorical intuition told me that it was the moment to stop.

With a sweeping gesture toward the North, I shouted the magic monosyllable "Mush!" and sat down.

In polar travel the last ten miles are invariably the hardest. One is spent and exhausted. Ice conditions north of eighty-seven are increasingly difficult. Absolutely nothing has been done by either Canadian or United States Governments toward keeping the national highways in condition. Raftered floes, composed of sheets of twenty-foot ice, piled up like badly shuffled playing cards, often directly oppose one's progress.[13]

But all things yield to an iron will. We had not come thus far to be thwarted and our nearness to success roused me to feverish energy. As I look back on that last day I am amazed at some of the things we did.

It has never been my habit to dodge a difficulty and true to this principle we made straight at every barrier. There was no dodging or deviating. Some we climbed, some we tunneled (the Kawa's masts folded back along her deck), some we blew up, though I hesitated to resort to this process for the practical reason of wishing to save my ice bombs, and the more sentimental dislike of breaking the mystic silence of the North with a sound so extraneous and artificial as that of blasting.

The northern silence has always seemed so pure and chaste that the thought of shattering it was extremely repugnant. It was like violating a virgin. It was, however, necessary to do this at times.[14]

Toiling, sweating, cursing, singing and shouting with excitement, we fought our way foot by foot, mile by mile, over the rough ice-cap.

It was marvellous to see how the Kawa behaved, how magnificently her pliant flanks adapted themselves to the jagged contours, how intelligently and naturally she oozed over and between difficulties, pressed in here, bulging out there, svelte, seal-like and delicious.

My office was that of general exhorter and encourager. It would never have done for me to take the lines and do any actual pulling; the men would have lost respect for me at once. But I was never idle for a moment. Armed with an old riding crop, a relic of my days as M.F.H. of the Derby Hounds, I circled about my straining comrades, shouting encouragement and occasionally flicking them smartly on back and buttock. They responded valiantly, though not a few black looks were thrown at me.

At the top of every ice hurdle we stopped to rest and I issued extra rations of alcohol plug. It was little enough to repay these gallant chaps for their exertions and surely this was no time to play the niggard with the "A-P" as we called it. Once refreshed, and the ice slide ready, we coasted down the northward incline and spun merrily across the level floe.

Late in the day, I called a halt. My comrades, somewhat exhausted by their exertions and a little affected, perhaps, by my generous distributions of A-P, sank on the ice near their traces or crawled up on the Kawa's soft counter and fell asleep.

I was glad of their unconsciousness for I was very much excited. We must be nearly there!

Before us rose a gentle snow eminence, the merest swelling in the white plain, such as would be called a mountain in the middle west.[15] Beyond this, unless I was mistaken, lay the Pole.

"Triplett," I said excitedly, "can you make a quick observation?"

"Sure," he observed. One glance at the low hanging sun was enough for my old navigator. Rolling back his eyes he looked for a moment into that reliable brain of his. I saw that he was taking a mental observation! Marvellous man! In breathless silence, I waited.

"Eighty-nine and--nine tenths," he whispered. Sweat stood out on his forehead and rolled in little rivers through his corrugations. This sort of thing was plainly exhausting.

Quickly handing him an emergency plug I rose.

At that moment Warburton Plock came toward me. Though I disliked him more than ever, he had been deferential and polite since I had faced him down in his silly fuss over my orders, so that I listened attentively while he spoke.

"Doctor, with your permission I'm going to unship the magnetic bowsprit and set it here as a beacon. We must be way above the Magnetic North by now and it is pulling us backward instead of forward."

"Very good," I answered. "Your idea has merit."

He touched his cap pleasantly and went forward. I liked the idea of leaving a beacon or cairn. It is the proper thing among explorers. Here and there we had run across them, an occasional pile of snow, topped by a gin bottle enclosing a message from some previous expedition, empty containers of various sorts whose labels were mute memorials to the achievement of the great white race! Walker, Haig and Booth, imperishable names these, with a solemn splendor when found on the white register of the North.

I watched the work with interest. Plock and Miskin were busy at the bow-chains, Swank, Wigmore and Frissell prepared the site, hewing out rude blocks with their ice picks, while Sausalito cackled encouragement. She was knitting a slip-on of reindeer yarn.

Suddenly a shout of dismay rose from under our forefoot. I saw Plock and Miskin struggling with the bowsprit. Evidently they had completely miscalculated the strength of the magnetic pull.

"Help!" cried Plock.

I sprang forward, even as the others threw down their picks and dashed toward the bow.

We were too late.

Jammed against the side of the ship, his hands torn and bleeding Miskin was forced to relinquish his grasp. With but the weight of Plock at its butt end the long pole shot off at an angle across the ice.

"Leave it go!" I ordered.

But Plock was too dazed, too enraged to hear me. Fortunately at a distance of two hundred yards his head struck a ridge of ice and he keeled over.

Free of all hindrance, the steel stick bounded off with amazing rapidity, leaving a faint trail, straight and true to the Magnetic North. I watched it through my glasses until it disappeared over the horizon to the southwest,--and there it is today, for all to see who visit those strange regions, a record of the Traprock Expedition placed there by a power more mysterious and greater than that of human hands.

Plock was gathered up and the company once more assembled.

This time I wasted no words. "Men, we are there. Beyond yonder eminence is the Pole. Ten minutes, twenty at most, and then--rest!"

ABOUT TO BE CAPTURED

This picture represents what is probably the high-spot in Dr.
Traprock's absorbing narrative, namely, the moment just before the
author and his friend Swank burst from their hiding-places and
captured Ikik, the Klinka maid, who is seen crouching over the
bait which in this case was the scarlet hunting-coat worn by Dr.
Traprock during many an exciting chase, though none, we venture
to say, compared to this. Critics of this picture have said that
the coat seemed unnecessarily voluminous. In explanation it may
interest our readers to know that at meetings of the Derby Hounds,
which organization takes its origin from the ancient Epsom Hunts of
England, the M.F.H. wears the medieval hunting costume, the folds
of which cover the rider, horse and at times several of the hounds
as well. The thought of our intrepid friend Traprock thus clad in
full cry suggests an inspiring sight. He says himself with his usual
modesty, "The coat has always attracted women, but I have usually
been in it."

Better than words our illustration, snapped by Swank through the eye
of "Dr. Pease," gives an idea of the simple beauty of the Klinka
summer-furs. Though she has thrown aside her oomiak she is plainly
apprehensive. Something is in the air, she knows not what.

It was Dr. Traprock's intention to capture the maid as politely as
was consistent with success. After the diving-tackle which he has
described he had expected to deliver a conciliatory speech beginning,
"Madame, I assure you my intentions are perfectly honorable."
Makuik's arrival interrupted this program but we feel that in
justice to Dr. Traprock his plan should be known lest some of our
readers assume that he was unnecessarily rough. In the old Norman,
"Chroniques de la Noblisse," we find significant note referring to
Jean Marie Piegeroche, an early ancestor of the author. Says the
historian, "_Fort comme la mort, beau comme le soleil, et toujour
rosse mais pas trop rosse._" "Strong as death! Beautiful as the sun,
rough ... but not too rough." It is indeed the Doctor.

With hearty good will they sprang to their positions and we shot forward up the gentle grade.

Exactly twelve minutes later we reached the crest and below us, sparkling in the sunlight, stood the Pole itself.

* * * * *

How can I possibly describe the scene and the sensations of that inspiring moment? Physically the outlook was perhaps unimportant save for a feature that set my blood tingling while it stilled my heart in reverence. This feature was Peary's cairn!

It was untouched, unchanged.

From the moment the object of the Traprock Expedition was announced I had been haunted by a vague fear that some other group would head straight for my goal, dragging with them some hapenny-tuppenny ships model wherewith to wither my laurels.

It was not so.

Before us, a few hundred yards distant in the center of a shallow bowl stood the rude monument of the great Commander, just as he had left it. From the summit and flanks of the miniature mountain fluttered the tattered ensigns he had placed there, our country's flag, the red cross, the D.K.E. banner and the others.

The Stars and Stripes were nailed to a stout spar, evidently an extra yard-arm or spare jigger from the Roosevelt. This mast still stood, a graphic symbol of the Pole itself, as if the giant axis of the earth projected beyond its surface. It was slightly out of plumb and the wood toward the base was somewhat abraded.

But of the vandalism of late visitants there was not a trace. No picnic baskets or discarded lily-cups marred the snowy surroundings. No other ship, great or small, had made fast to Mother Earth's last mooring.

We rushed toward the spot in helter skelter fashion, but ten yards from the cairn a thought, almost morbid in its chivalrousness, seized me.

I must stop this mad rush.

How?

Whipping out my Colt I fired three shots in quick succession. It was the return-to-the-ship signal. The crowd hesitated, irresolute.

On the instant I dashed ahead and faced about.

"Gentlemen," I cried, "though thousands of miles from home, remember, you _are_ gentlemen. The lady, first!"

Offering Sausalito my arm we climbed the slope together.

The others arrived en masse. Swank, Plock, Sloff, they were all like children playing a game of prisoner's base, with the Pole as home. Poor Whinney was "it."

In the excitement of the moment I had forgotten him. He was a pitiful spectacle as he came tap-tapping his way across the ice, feeling each step with his cane. We watched him in silence until I saw that he was going to miss the Pole entirely and if not stopped would soon be bound south again for an indefinite period. Tenderly Sausalito and I led him to the cairn while her rich voice murmured comfort in his ear. He was beside himself with emotion and hot tears kept welling from under his goggles.

"The touch of a woman's hand!" he sobbed, as he smoothed mine with his.

Frissell's arrival was characteristic. He made the last sixty yards between the Kawa and the Pole on a pogo stick--a new--in fact the only--record for an event of this kind.

Second only to ourselves was the Kawa and willing hands soon hauled her across the intervening distance and made her fast.

The great objective of my polar push had been gained and with a reverent heart I called the men together for short but appropriate ceremonies.

After a prayer of thanksgiving by Miskin, we sang as much of the Star Spangled Banner as we could remember and ate a silent toast to the memory of great explorers who had come and gone. I then made a few appropriate remarks, outlining the progress of polar travel from Norse days down to the present and we then proceeded to the picturesque "planting of the flags." It was a charming picture in the amber sunlight, not unlike the final chorus of some great operatic spectacle in which the nations of the earth are gathered together.

Forming in a circle we marched slowly about the cairn singing the ancient song: "Nordenskold--Nordenskold--helvig am trein," each man planting his flag at the close of a verse, in the order named:

Traprock, U.S.A., Swank, Sons of American Revolution; Whinney, Guidon of the Derby Fencibles (sometimes called the "Desperate Derbies"); Sausalito, Lucy Stone League; Frissell, Dutch Treat Club of New York; Plock, Explorers Union; Miskin, National Geographic Society; Triplett, New Bedford Chamber of Commerce; Sloff, Ass. Astronomers of America; Wigmore, Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities; Dane, Egypt.

With the cairn thus gaily decorated and the Kawa's full alphabet of signal flags flying fore and aft spelling the word "Victory," the formal ceremonies were over and I gave the order for complete rest, relaxation and enjoyment.

How thoroughly these instructions were carried out may well be imagined. Three days' rations of every sort were dragged from the hold and spread about us. Without further urging all hands fell to. Every man had five A-P's and a bountiful supply of potted ham, herring and salt codfish.[16] This somewhat arid diet was washed down with copious draughts of melted snow thickened with A-P, and the celebration soon attained a terrific muzzle velocity. Songs echoed across the surrounding plain, merry tales were passed about, tales which brought a dull glow to Sausalito's cheeks and caused old Triplett to slap his thigh with delight.

Frissell was a host in himself. He performed tricks of magic, imitations and feats of acrobatics and ventriloquism, appearing successively in various costumes from his inexhaustible supply. The quiet Miskin disclosed an unsuspected social gift and lured us into guessing games.

"What is the distance from Bremen to Hong Kong?"

We were staggered. Miskin, from the store of his librarian experience, knew the answer. It was dull, but helped to keep the others sober for a few extra hours.

The three days' rations lasted, I think, about one full 24-hour day.

A single unpleasant incident marred the close of the entertainment.

Plock, who was enormously exhilarated, crawled toward me and pointed toward the D.K.E. flag above us.

"D.K.E. song," he said thickly.

I eyed him coldly.

"I can only sing it with a Brother."

To my disgust he stretched out a very dirty hand, and gave me the grip!

"Mew Chapter," he murmured.

It was revolting. That it should be Plock of all others!

We did the "Band of Brothers" together--my oath compelled it--but I have never voiced its loving sentiments so half-heartedly.

Quiet fell at last. So did most of my companions. One by one they toppled over. Whinney was the last to go. It is said that the loss of one function strengthens another and I suppose that the absence of eyesight gave him staying power. But he finally succumbed, smiling happily and crooning to himself--"I don't no' whish is, m' I blin'-drunk or drunk-blin'"; and he was gone.

My last memory is of Frissell saying "my next imitation" and then playing "taps" on a mouth organ. I knew the impossibility of competing with a parlor entertainer. Nothing will quiet such chaps but a dead audience. So I rolled over, and slept the sleep of a tired but happy explorer.

* * * * *

What awakened me I cannot say, but I am sure that it was something unusual, for my awakening was not gradual or difficult. It was the same quick instant leap to consciousness as that which rouses the suburban wife when she leans across the interim between the twin beds and whispers tensely to her husband, "Horace, someone is trying to get into the dining-room window!"

SOMETHING NEW IN DRAMATICS

A happy thought in the formation of the personnel of the Expedition
was the inclusion of Frissell, the professional entertainer, who is
here shown playing a leading part in the amateur theatricals which
it was his delight to organize. The scene chosen for illustration is
the famous shipping episode from "The Taming of the Shrew." Reginald
Swank, who is no mean dramatic critic, tells us that Frissell's
"Petruchio" was a spirited performance, while Snak's "Katharine"
rivalled Ada Rehan at her best. The nautical background added a novel
touch to the somewhat hackneyed vehicle and it is safe to say that
Shakespeare is permanently established among the Klinka and Kryptok
tribes.

Not content with the success of this production, Frissell plans to
bring to Broadway a newly organized company, "The Polar Players."
They will appear in repertoire while the B and C companies tour
the provinces. The Winter Garden has already been engaged for the
venture, Al Jolson obligingly shifting to the Metropolitan Opera
House. Tickets for the première of this interesting novelty, which is
set for November 1st, may be had by application to any of the well
known speculators. Mr. Frissell has already shown photographs of some
of his best scenes to prominent professional critics. A few sample
opinions may be of interest.

George Jean Nathan: "Foreign and therefore good."

Heywood Broun: "Lacking in background; we like it."

Al Woods: "Niftik."

Dorothy Parker: "I hate actors, but these people are different."

Frederick O'Brien: "Taupo aloha che."

The Literary Digest: "Better than the average and more average than
the best."

David Belasco: "All to the spot-light."

Bernard Shaw: "They go further back than Methusaleh."

I suddenly found myself sitting bolt upright, straining my ears through the lightness.

What was it?

What uncanny influence had snatched me bodily out of the depths of stupor?

All about me lay my companions. I counted them dazedly. Triplett, Sausalito, Swank,--yes, they were all there, not one missing.

"It was nothing" I thought, and stretched myself, preparatory to replacing my aching head in its original position.

And then my hair literally rose on that same head and a creeping chill crept up my spine.

Close at hand, just back of me, rose a soft, exquisite, purling sound, the sound of a woman's laughter! Whirling about I caught a fleeting glimpse of her.

It was just a flash. She was peering over the edge of the cairn. The instant my eyes met hers I knew that I had seen the most beautiful woman in the world!

Leaping silently to my feet, for I did not wish to waken my comrades, I raced toward the cairn. As I rounded the curve I heard again that silvery laughter, spiced, I thought, with a note of mockery.

"One second, my beauty!" I muttered, "and I shall have you!" Remember, I had been for months in the solitudes. My blood pounded in my temples.

Sweeping gracefully around the cairn I arrived on the opposite side.

Desolate and empty, the ice bowl curved to its rim.

Not a living soul in sight.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: The only highway comparable to the above, in my experience, is the main street of Portchester, N.Y., which has been torn up since the memory of man. Some of the rocks in the middle of this thoroughfare are of volcanic origin. The detours are even worse.]

[Footnote 14: The explosive used is a development of Whinney's along suggestions made by me. I am not at liberty to give the chemical formula, but its lines of force are bi-lateral instead of perpendicular as is the case with lyddite and the other nitroglycerine derivatives. To any one especially interested in ice blasting I shall be pleased to furnish additional information. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 15: The lowest mountain in the world is Mt. Clemens, Mich., which has an altitude of 6 ft. above lake level. I once climbed it on crutches. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 16: These compact and easily carried food stuffs formed a large part of our store. With the addition of a little water they increase greatly in bulk and nutritive value. The idea came to me when stranded for two weeks in the Dry Tortugas, during which time I lived entirely on an old carriage sponge which I found on the beach. W.E.T.]

Chapter VI

_Fatal procrastination. Our one-dimensional position. An
extraordinary ornithological display. I confide in Swank. His plan. I
capture my vision. The Klinkas. An embarrassing incident._